My Little Razor
by Jareth's Whore
Summary: Pretty much what the title says...Ginny is not a happy person, and she goes a little nuts. First fanfic, not for the faint of heart. RLHG, Unrequited DMGW


It all starts when she is nine. Three tiny scratches, three insignificant marks against her pale, pale skin. She wants to know if blades hurt as badly when wielded by her own hand, against her own flesh, rather than by someone else's will. She finds out, and puts the tiny blade away, and that is that. It still haunts her though, the memory of that razor, so silvery, so shiny, against her bland skin. But it is gone, and she will never do it again.  
  
Until first year. First year, and all its troubles: the Chamber, Tom...possession; living with the knowledge of what she had done, the petrifying, is not something she can do. She digs the blade out of her trunk and puts two more marks, small ones that heal within a week, on her upper arm.  
  
Second year. Sirius Black, the dementors, and her secret lust, her Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher. It is illegal, for one thing, and only a blind woman can't see the way he looks at Hermione. Three more marks.  
  
Third year, and fourth: nothing too terrible happens to her, but somehow, she can't put it away. It is constantly out, branding her skin with its small razor. She hides everywhere, in the library, under the bed, in the bathrooms. Wise enough to know what she is doing is wrong, she keeps the wounds small: only two scars remain, out of more than one-hundred fifty marks in the two years. She hides her pain in the bottom of her soul and puts on a brave front all the time.  
  
And now, crouching on the toilet seat in the fifth floor bathroom, she studies her arms. Such tiny scratches, so small, so...trivial. It is hard to believe that she can keep the emotional hurt locked inside her, and not bring it out, not force it out on her own body. She wishes she could.  
  
Standing, she unlocks the door and trudges down the corridor, noting glances thrown in her direction, frightened ones, contemptuous ones. Sometime this term, she stopped being sociable. More often than not, she is secured in her room with her little razor, her only true friend. People--especially Hermione--ask what is wrong, and while she smiles sunnily and replies, Nothing, she is screaming inside.  
  
--How can you not see what is wrong? Am I that unimportant to you? Class Braniac, can't you see?  
  
--I am going crazy. I want to die.--  
  
She is hidden by the drapery of her bed, sitting with her paints and three pieces of white paper in front of her. She is an artist, a fact no one knows. She splatters paint on parchment with fury, not making a single noise. This first one, this is all black. The second, a mixture of colors, dark greens and blues, a strand of magenta weaving through the mess, black everywhere. The third...  
  
How curious. She is out of red paint. It's almost like a sign.  
  
She considers her options. There is extra paint under her bed, but does she really want to move? No. She doesn't. Is she sure there is extra paint? No. She isn't.  
  
Taking out the blade, she examines her arm. She has never done anything quite so severe to herself. She places the scalpel on her wrist, right over that big vein, and draws a thin red line. It pulses, and blood spills onto the white. She laughs, and the pain in her heart is almost gone, gone with one deep swipe of the blade. Why use paper?  
  
Her body is a canvas.  
  
It is a little past midnight now. This habit, this little 'artistic escapade' she is doing, is out of control. It is no longer just art. This is addiction, this is obsession. She hates her body. Perhaps, if her breasts were just a little larger, if her hips swayed more as she walked, perhaps he would look at her more. Perhaps he would lust after her, as he does with Hermione.  
  
Perhaps, if her body was painted red with blood, he would look at her.  
  
This hurt, this pain bottled up in her chest, it is too much. She needs to be numb. And she knows how to do it.  
  
She steals down to the kitchens. The house elves are sleeping. It isn't hard to take what she wants. No one will miss it.  
  
Her vision is blurry. She can't see the clock. Maybe it has something to do with the seven empty bottles of vodka on the floor next to her.  
  
She is caressing the knife. Loving it. Crooning words of wisdom and affection to it. This isn't her blade. This is a kitchen knife, a hulking thing used to cut up chickens and hogs. This is a true weapon.  
  
Where is she? It's as if her legs know where to go, but her brain has no clue where they are. She stumbles across the room, to the sleeping girl in the corner of the room. Dark brown hair is spread across the pillow. Hermione murmurs and rolls over in her sleep.  
  
Shifting the knife to her right hand, she props Hermione's head up with her left. Hermione wakes up, looking around blearily.  
  
"Gin...wha...?"  
  
"Sweet dreams, bitch," she whispers, and the cutting edge comes arcing down across Hermione's throat, silver in the moonlight filtering in from the window.  
  
It is morning. Her head is throbbing, pulsating. She feels her heartbeat in her brain. All she wants to do is sleep.  
  
--What did I do last night?-- she wonders.  
  
There is blood on her hands. How did that get there? She decides she must have had a nosebleed the night before, or possibly cut just a little too deeply while making her art on her right leg.  
  
She washes up, in the fifth floor bathroom, the one she likes for its black marble sinks and baths. Pulling on her dark blue jeans, she smiles in satisfaction. Her art has been rendered invisible, by the miracle of pants.  
  
She feels...fulfilled. Like she did something that had to be done, and now, with it finished, she can breathe again. She just doesn't know what it is.  
  
--Maybe it was getting drunk off eight bottles of vodka last night,-- she thinks, and giggles. People see her and scoot out of the way. --That's odd. What'd I do to them?--  
  
Making her way down to the Great Hall for breakfast, Draco Malfoy sees her. Accustomed to his rudeness, she ignores him, but instead of mocking laughter in his eyes, there is pity.  
  
"Tough luck, Ginny," he murmurs softly. She stops, and stares after him with growing bemusement. --He used my name. Draco Malfoy used my name. Weird.--  
  
"Gin!" She turns, and it is Harry, walking toward her with Ron at his side. Curiously, Ron seems to be pleading with Harry, seems to be trying to pull him back. There is stone in Harry's face.  
  
"Hi. What's up?" she asks him pleasantly.  
  
"Hermione's dead, Ginny. Someone slit her throat open last night. They tested for fingerprints this morning."  
  
She sways where she stands, and briefly, just for a moment--  
  
"Sweet dreams, bitch," and the knife goes hurtling down.  
  
Oh god. Oh shit. She did it. She killed Hermione.  
  
"Who?" she manages, her throat suddenly dry. "Who did it?"  
  
"You see, that's the funny thing," Harry says. His green eyes were cold. "You did."  
  
She is in the fifth floor bathroom, with the scalpel out and wreaking havoc on her arms. The door is locked.  
  
--I killed Hermione. I killed Hermione. How could I?--  
  
She stands and pulls off her robes, pulls off the jeans and the shirt, pulls off her underclothes. More skin for her to wound. She collapses to the floor, and digs the blade deep into her arms, slitting the skin far more than she should. More than she ever has.  
  
She grits her teeth, slicing open that big vein.  
  
"Tough luck, Ginny."  
  
He knew. Malfoy, of all people, knew before she did!  
  
Her life is draining away. Slowly, slowly.  
  
--I don't deserve to live.--  
  
Drip. Drip.  
  
She stares at the droplets in fascination. There is so much blood on the marble floor already, it doesn't seem like there is anything else, no black peeking through the red, but these two drops have landed on the last remaining clear space. Or so it seems. There is blackness around the edges of her vision. She is dying. Drip. Drip.  
  
--No!  
  
--Please, God, no  
  
--I'm not ready  
  
--don't do this  
  
--not to me  
  
--no--  
  
Draco Malfoy shoves his hands in his pockets. He had seen Ginny Weasley go tearing up the stairs, tears falling from her face, after she had spoken to Potter. He wonders what Potter had said to make her react so harshly. Tilting his head to the side, he eavesdrops on the conversation between Potter and the elder Weasley.  
  
"Come on, Harry, she was framed, she had to be--"  
  
"Framed by who, Ron? That bloody bitch killed Hermione!"  
  
--Oh shit.-- They had confronted her. Poor Ginny. Draco remembers seeing her with the knife in the library, in his fifth year, watching her make marks up and down her arms. He had watched her after that, it had become almost an obsession, and had seen her spiraling downward into blackness. A blackness he himself had once fought to get out of. Luckily for him, he was successful. He planned on helping Ginny, before she did too much damage to herself.  
  
A sudden coldness permeates his bones. He has a gut feeling, a horrific sense that something is wrong. It has to do with the veela blood in him; he can tell when something critical happens to someone he cares about. He walks up to Potter and Weasley.  
  
"What did you tell her?" he asks.  
  
"Shove off, Malfoy," Weasley says hatefully.  
  
"No. What did you say?"  
  
"Say to who?" Potter laughs mirthlessly. "Ginny? I told her the truth."  
  
Grey eyes narrow. Weasley can sense his fury, and takes a step back.  
  
--That's right, Weasel. You better run.--  
  
"What do you want with Ginny?" Weasley's voice is shaking.  
  
"I think I know what he wants." Potter's voice is callous. "He wants her. He probably wants to take her now, while everyone's disturbed, and have his way with her. Good riddance to her, I say."  
  
He punches Potter in the face. Turns to Weasley.  
  
"I have a feeling, Weasel, that if you want to see your sister again, you'll follow me."  
  
Weasley just stands there, mouth gaping open like some lunatic fish.  
  
"Now, Weasel!" He wheels around and starts pacing up the stairs, a steady, quick gait. He hears footsteps, and Weasley is next to him, panting from running.  
  
"Where? Where is she?" To give him credit, he sounds alarmed.  
  
"Fifth floor bathroom. The black one."  
  
"What did you do to her, Malfoy? I'll kill you--"  
  
He laughs, a humorless, cold laugh. "What did I do to her? You should ask what she did to herself."  
  
"Wh...what?"  
  
He stops, turns, and places his hands on Weasley's shoulders, holding him an arm's-length away.  
  
"You are pathetic," he spits, barely noticing Potter thudding up the stairway and coming to a startled halt six feet away. "You are her brother, and I--me, her enemy, someone she despises--noticed it first."  
  
"What the hell?" says Potter. Draco releases Weasley, and glares at the both of them.  
  
"Since her fourth year," he says, through gritted teeth, "and probably sooner, too, Ginny's been cutting herself with a razor."  
  
The silence is almost funny in its thickness.  
  
"She's depressed, she's insane, she's suicidal, and yes, she killed Granger (out of jealousy, probably), but if you two had bothered to pay any attention to her for all this time she's been at this damn school, she probably wouldn't have! She's lonely, I can see it in her eyes. So lonely it drove her crazy. And she's in love with someone inaccessible to her, I just don't know who."  
  
He leaves them standing there, staring blankly at him, and pounds up the stairs. Third floor, fourth floor...aha! Fifth floor, the bathroom so close...  
  
The door's locked! Dammit!  
  
"Alohamora!" he yells, and it does unlock. He slams the door open, and...  
  
Ginny is lying there, in a lake of her own blood, naked, so many cuts on her pale, pale flesh. There is no way she is still alive.  
  
He drops down next to her, unaware of Weasley and Potter at the door, and looks into her dead eyes. There is just the tiniest spark of life still in them. She tries to move her arm, but is unsuccessful. A breath comes out, rattling in her throat. Her last breath. She has paid for her sin.  
  
He closes her eyes with one slender finger, running it along her jawline, down her neck, resting his hand on her collarbone, then glances up at the two in the doorway.  
  
"I knew her better than you ever did," he says, and rising to his feet, sweeps out of the room, leaving his obsession, his Ginny, empty of life on the black marble. 


End file.
